Second Chances
by Jiasa Stormcloud
Summary: R+J. Romeo/Mercutio. Mercutio has been given the chance to set things right and save his friend's life, as well as his own. Modern day. Uploading ate my formatting. For this, I apologize.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer. I don't own any of William Shakespeare's characters, obviously. But I do own my oh-so-amusing obsession with Mercutio, and I own this plot.  
  
Summary: In a new day and age, Mercutio is given the chance to save his dear friend, and to tell Romeo what is in his heart.What will come of this? Even I don't know that. So don't ask.  
  
"Two households, both alike in dignity,  
  
In Fair Verona, where we lay  
  
our scene,  
  
From ancient grudge break to  
  
new mutiny,  
  
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.  
  
From forth the fatal loins of   
  
these two foes  
  
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;  
  
whose misadventured piteous overthrows  
  
Do with their death bury their parents' strife.  
  
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,  
  
And the continuance of their parents' rage,  
  
Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,  
  
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;  
  
The which if you with patient ears attend,  
  
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."  
  
This is how the age-old story begins. The tale of Romeo and Juliet. The story of my best friend's death, of his wife's, and of mine.  
  
I hate it.  
  
It is comedic, tragic, beautiful, poetic . . . and every time I read it, or see it performed, I hear my own final words. "A plague o' both your houses!" That's how I died, cursing friend and foe alike.  
  
Friend. Yes, Romeo, you were always my friend. I loved you in a different way than that, but you never knew. You didn't even know it when I died. . .died for you, died for your honor. . .  
  
Died cursing your name.  
  
Had you not stepped between us, Tybalt and I, would I have died? No way to know. Perhaps I'd have won, and perhaps I'd have lost. Still, I never forgave you that, the moment when you placed your body between Tybalt's and mine. Never got over the moment Tybalt's sword thrust under your arm and pierced into me.  
  
And then I was shouting, cursing the both of you, hysterical with pain and fear and anger, and you, Romeo; and Benvolio, frantic, asking if I was hurt . . . of course I was hurt, I'd had a blade in my chest . . .  
  
"A plague o' both your houses!"   
  
I died defending you, Romeo. And so foolish were the both of us that I died hating you, as well. Hating you because I loved you and you wouldn't . . . you wouldn't let me prove myself. And how was I to know Tybalt was your kinsman? How was I to know you'd gone and married her, that mere child, whom you'd known for . . . how long? A day?  
  
O foolish, fickle love . . . she wasn't yours to have, she was too young, and besides, she was of that house. Didn't you know how much trouble it would bring? Romeo, if only you had seen!  
  
I was yours, you know.  
  
"And in this state she gallops night by night through lovers' brains, and then they  
  
dream of love."  
  
You're not the only one Queen Mab visited, those nights.  
  
But you never saw, did you? We tried to save you from destruction, Benvolio and I. From your own traitorous heart. You didn't want to be saved.  
  
Now, centuries late . . . I'll save you, I will! This time I won't let you destroy yourself. Star-crossed lovers, they called you. Fated to die. Romeo . . . defy fate this time, I beg you. Turn your back on destiny, and together we'll make our own.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
New York, Present Day  
  
Romeo sighs, leaning back against the brick wall of the alley. His eyes are moist with the evidence of his melancholy, and a fine sheen of sweat covers his forehead. "I don't get it," he complains. "She won't even talk to me! What did I do?"  
  
"Nothing," Mercutio responds. He frowns, pushing back a few wayward strands of hair. "She's an ice queen, she's like that with everyone." He doesn't like seeing his friend like this, brooding over a girl who will have nothing to do with him. "There are others, you know," he reminds Romeo.  
  
He only sighs again. "Not as far as I'm concerned . . . she's beautiful. There's not another woman that can compare."  
  
Really? Mercutio asks him mentally. And what about a man? Of course, Romeo doesn't hear. He never hears, because as of yet, Mercutio only asks in his head. His lips cannot say what his soul tells them to. "Ben," he says instead.  
  
"Yeah?" Benjamin, or 'Benvolio,' as Mercutio calls him, glances up. Ben is Romeo's cousin. When the three had first convened as friends, Mercutio had insisted upon completing the infamous trio.  
  
"Tell him," Mercutio says, "That Emily, his Rosaline, is not the only woman on this earth."  
  
"It's true," Ben tells him solemnly. "There are many, many others. And they're just as good."  
  
Mercutio stretches, and his hand slides across the bricks, making contact with a sheet of paper taped there. He glances up, jade eyes scanning the flyer. Suddenly, a smile spreads across his lips. "Hey! I have an idea."  
  
Romeo groans. "I hate it when you get ideas."  
  
"Shut up, okay? There's a party tonight. Open invitation. We're going."  
  
After a moment's consideration, Ben agrees, but Romeo is adament. He shakes his head. "No. Not now. I need to think about things . . ."  
  
"No," Mercutio tells him, "You need to forget about things. You'll come with us, and you'll see, there are other things to life than some woman who won't look twice at you."  
  
Still, his dear friend refuses. "I love her. There's no such thing as forgetting, for me."  
  
Benvolio and Mercutio exchange a hopeless look. "Listen to him, Ben. He'll die before he gives up on her!"  
  
"We can only hope not," Ben says gravely.  
  
Romeo watches them both, silently, for a moment. Then, "I'll go," he says. "But you'll see. I don't want anyone but Emily." There are ill tidings whispering fearful messages inside his mind, and unease gnaws at his stomach. But Romeo, fool that he is, puts it out of his mind.  
  
~End chapter one. Yes, I'm insane. Yes, I'm obsessive. Yes, I'm aware that I'm a terrible, terrible person. :D I'm happy this way.~ 


	2. Mab

Energy pulses in the air outside of the large house, the taste of alcohol and cigarettes saturating the oxygen entering Mercutio's lungs. Even out here, the bass beat reaches them, sending tremors through their bodies. Yet somehow, this does not touch Romeo. He is still sullen,unreachable . . .  
"Tell me you won't be like this all night," Ben groans. "It's depressing."  
Mercutio nods. "You're going to have a good time, and you're going to forget about things, all right?"  
"It's easy for you to say," Romeo replies. After a moment, he asks, "Have either of you ever been in love?"  
". . . No," Mercutio lies. "But I thought it was supposed to make things better. Isn't love supposed to be uplifting? You should be happy."  
"You're wrong," he says. "It hurts. It the most painful thing in the world."  
Sometimes, thinks Mercutio, you can make a guy want to go slice his wrists, you know? "Maybe you're only making it hurt. You do seem to have a masochistic edge, some days. You shouldn't let it do this to you." He steps back from the crowd, gesturing dramatically. "If love be rough with you, be rough with love;  
  
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.'"  
Benvolio laughs, recognizing the lines.  
Romeo only glares. "Not everything is a joke, Mercutio. And I don't think this party is a good idea, either."  
"Oh? And why is that?"  
He sighs. "I dreamed a dream to-night."  
"And so did I."  
Romeo's eyes snap up, locking onto Mercutio's. "Well, what was yours?"  
The corners of Mercutio's lips twitch with the telltale signs of mischief. "That dreamers often lie."  
"In bed asleep, while they do dream things true."  
These words . . . centuries old, and yet how easily they come!  
Mercutio stands atop the low garden wall, now, gesturing wildly as he speaks. "O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.  
  
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes  
  
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone  
  
On the fore-finger of an alderman,  
  
Drawn with a team of little atomies  
  
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;  
  
Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders' legs,  
  
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,  
  
The traces of the smallest spider's web,  
  
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams,  
  
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,  
  
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,  
  
Not so big as a round little worm  
  
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut  
  
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,  
  
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers." He spreads his arms out wide, leaping from the wall top so that the hem of his long leather coat flares out behind him like a cloak. As he lands, his foot twists beneath him, but he continues on, laughing.  
  
"And in this state she gallops night by night  
  
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;  
  
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight,  
  
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees,  
  
O'er ladies ' lips, who straight on kisses dream,  
  
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,  
  
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:" The sickly glow of the streetlights illuminates his features, hollowing his cheekbones, the area about his eyes . . . he looks wild, strange like this. His eyes gleam with a strange light, his voice echoing through the streets.  
  
"Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,  
  
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;  
  
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail  
  
Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep,  
  
Then dreams, he of another benefice:  
  
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,  
  
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,  
  
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,  
  
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon  
  
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,  
  
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two  
  
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab  
  
That plats the manes of horses in the night,  
  
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,  
  
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:  
  
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,  
  
That presses them and learns them first to bear,  
  
Making them women of good carriage:  
  
This is she- "  
"Mercutio, stop!" Romeo's hand is clasped tightly about Mercutio's wrist, bringing him back to the world, to reality, to now. His lungs heave, throat dry from these rantings, the pain in his ankle only just surfacing.  
"You're going on and on about nothing . . . nothing, do you hear me?!" There is genuine worry in Romeo's gaze, bewilderment breaking in a wave upon his features.  
"Nothing," Mercutio breathes. "Yes, nothing . . ." He pulls his arm from his friend's grasp, stalking back toward the crowd outside of the house. "Remember that, Romeo! Dreams are nothing. Nothing at all."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
People are crowded together, bodies thrashing wildly, as the three enter. Limbs clad in PVC and fishnet slam into them as they pass, and more than a few women try to catch Romeo's gaze. He has no eye for them, however.  
Unamused by his friend's gloom, Mercutio slips away. Soon, a lithe arm is wrapped about the back of his neck, drawing him near. "Dance with me," whispers the girl, her voice a sultry rasp, breath warm against his face. Her body is long, lithe, and dark, like a panther, and her hair falls like silk about her face. Full lips speak seductions to him, but they fall upon deaf ears. What have you done to me, Romeo? He wants nothing, no one else . . . perhaps now he understands how his dear friend feels. Love is a strange thing, and he has had quite enough of it for the night. When the song is over, he makes his excuses, and goes in search of his own sort of amusement.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There is a girl. A beautiful girl, reluctant to be here as Romeo is, eyes full of wishing. Wishes for the quiet of her bedroom, for the happiness that control over her own life would allow, for a book or for a pen. Her dark hair falls silken over her slim shoulders, framing an ivory- pale face, offsetting those beautiful, wistful grey eyes. Romeo sees her standing there, in the corner of the smoky room, and he cannot drag his gaze away from her.  
Reaching out, he grabs the sleeve of the nearest dancer. Once he has the man's attention, he questions him. "That girl . . . over there, see her?"  
"Yeah?"  
"Who is she?" He asks.  
The guy shrugs and turns back to his date, and Romeo is left with nothing more than before.  
"She's too lovely . . . too beautiful for this world." Romeo's voice has become a whisper, filled with the pain of love once more. "Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!  
  
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."  
Hearing Romeo's voice, one member of the crowd whirls to find the source of the sound. Through the tangle of bodies, he can barely make out the intruder's shape. "Romeo!" He hisses.  
He begins to push his way through the crowd, but is stilled by a strong hand. "Where are you going, Devon?"  
He is forced to meet his uncle's eyes. "There's- Romeo, he's here. He has no right! I was going to . . ."  
"You were going to fight him."  
"Yes, I was," Devon says defiantly. A black strand of hair slides from its short ponytail to obscure his vision. "He's here to laugh at me. Someone needs to teach the little bastard a lesson."  
Capulet sighs. "What am I to do with you, Devon? No, don't answer."He eyes his nephew sternly. "You will not fight him in my house, do you understand that? I could have refused to let you have this party in the first place- I had a mind to, you know. It's too loud for my aging ears. And, from what I've heard, this Romeo is not nearly so bad as you say."  
"But he is. I can't let him stay here!" Devon starts to pull away, but Capulet's grip on his arm tightens. While the man is aging, he is still strong.  
"Oh, you can't? You'll have to. You won't be starting a brawl in this home, boy."  
"It's an embarrassment!"  
"You won't see me blush," says his uncle. "My, but you're troublesome. Calm yourself or leave, Devon. Agreed?"  
Sullenly, he agrees. "I'll let him go . . . for now, at least." Capulet releases him, and Devon disappears into the crowd.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Romeo has found her, his Juliet. "Hey." He lifts a hand in greeting, aware that it is trembling slightly.  
She peers up at him through her eyelashes, soft mouth parted slightly. "Oh! H-hello." A faint, rose-colored blush rises in her cheeks.  
"Why are you alone here?" he wonders. Her slender shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. "I wanted to be, I guess."  
"Oh." Romeo frowns. "I can leave, if you want. I know I'm not the best company."  
"No!" She exclaims. Then, embarrassed, she softens her voice. "I mean . . . you're too hard on yourself. I mean- I don't mind having you here. . ." Her voice is reduced to embarrassed mumbling.  
He has barely heard her. He is staring at her delicate, heart-shaped lips. "And would you mind if I kissed you?" he murmurs, one hand drawing her close almost subconsciously.  
"You shouldn't," she whispers.  
"People do lots of things they shouldn't," he replies.  
"I suppose they do- "she is cut off mid-sentence as Romeo presses his lips to hers. Startled, she does not respond, but makes no move to break the kiss. When finally Romeo pulls away, it is clear that his charms have done their work.  
"Oh . . ." Her eyes are wide, bright with surprise, her breath coming quicker.  
"Sweetheart, your mama's looking for you!" The speaker is a plump woman with greying hair, wearing a faded black dress and an apron.  
"Wait!" Romeo calls after her. "Your name! I didn't catch your name!"  
"Colette," she yells back. "Colette Capulet. You might know my cousin . . . Devon."  
As Colette is pulled through the raving crowd, Romeo falls back against the wall with a groan. "Devon!"  
But then Ben is there, grabbing his wrist, dragging him towards the exit. "Come on! Let's get out of here!"  
"What's going on?"  
"Mercutio!" The one word, his best friend's name, is quite enough information for Romeo. He dashes for the door, heedless of the bodies he collides with on his way out.  
  
A/N: ^-^ Nice, long chunk there. I'm happy with it. Next up: my take on  
  
the balcony scene. Should be interesting. And maybe we'll actually find  
  
out what Mercutio did at the party, sooner or later . . . hm. And yes,  
  
I'm calling my Tybalt 'Devon.' It means poet. I thought it was amusing  
  
and/or ironic. Yeah . . . whatever. 


	3. Jade

"Nurse?" Colette calls to the old woman, staring after the fleeing boy. "Nurse, who is that?"  
  
"Him? That's old Bryson's son."  
  
"No, not him! The one who's leaving!"  
  
"Oh! That's Alexander. A friend of Devon's. I thought you knew him?"  
  
"No, no, Nurse! The one who never danced! Who I spoke to before!"  
  
The nurse ponders this for a moment, dark eyes squinting up with thought. "Well . . . I don't know that one, Miss."  
  
"Ask him," Colette pleads, giving the woman a slight shove. "Find out his name, ask if he's . . . you know, attached to anybody. If he is . . . oh, I think I might die."  
  
With a sigh, the nurse throws up her gnarled, sun-browned hands, and begins to fight her way through the crowd. From across the room, Colette watches her catch the young man by the sleeve of his navy shirt. Watches the hurried conversation, the way, even from here, the narrowing of the old woman's eyes is visible. Her heart twists about in her breast, and fearfully, she waits.  
  
By the time the nurse barrels back through the throng, to Colette's side, the girl knows something is wrong. "Nurse?"  
  
"His name is Romeo," she says, her voice hardened slightly. "You've heard of him, haven't you?"  
  
"Romeo?" Her breath comes to her in a little, horrified gasp. "Not him . . . no! The one who . . . that Devon says . . . "  
  
Straightening her canvas apron, the nurse fixes her with a stern look. "Yes, that one. Romeo Fiore. If I were you, Miss, I'd stay away from him."  
  
In this moment, a blade is thrust through Colette's heart. "No," she whispers. "No, he can't be . . ." Long-forgotten words spring, unbidden, to her lips. "'My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a loathed enemy.'"  
  
"Miss?" The gaze has softened, warning receding.  
  
Startled, she looks up. "Hm?"  
  
"What did you say, just now, Miss?"  
  
"Oh . . . it was nothing, Nurse." The lie drifts softly from her  
mouth, so gentle compared to the ravaging pain that rests behind them.  
"Lines, of a song. One I heard tonight. That's all."  
  
"Hm. Sounded pretty," says the Nurse, thoughtfully. "Poetic. Like  
Shakespeare," she muses. "Yes. Shakespeare."  
  
Colette forces a smile to her pretty lips, nods. "Yeah. I liked it.  
That's probably why I remembered."  
  
"Well, it's off to bed for you. The guests are gone, and you need your  
sleep."  
  
Holding back the tears that brim in her eyes, Colette cannot bring  
herself to argue. She allows the Nurse to guide her up the stairs, to her  
room. She lets the woman brush out her hair for her, lay out the  
nightgown so lovingly on the bed, as she has done every night for years  
now. When the wizened old lady has left the room, Colette opens the  
delicate, white lattice doors, and steps out onto her balcony.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~  
  
"Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie,  
  
And young affection gapes to be his heir;  
  
That fair for which love groan'd for and would die,  
  
With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.  
  
Now Romeo is beloved and loves again,  
  
Alike betwitched by the charm of looks,  
  
But to his foe supposed he must complain,  
  
And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks:  
  
Being held a foe, he may not have access  
  
To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;  
  
And she as much in love, her means much less  
  
To meet her new-beloved any where:  
  
But passion lends them power, time means, to meet  
  
Tempering extremities with extreme sweet."  
  
It takes so little, to move a young heart from one love to the next. The old is replaced with the new, and Romeo has forgotten Emily. Has forgotten his Rosaline, as I called her before. And that's what she was. Of course, she's nothing compared to Colette. Colette is younger, barely fifteen years old, with all the soft sweetness that comes with youth. Girls grow up quickly, after all, and this tenderness fades with the youth of their heart. Romeo is in love. And loved in return, this time. Both of them charmed by the other's face, by saccharine words exchanged in that heady, sweat-soaked atmosphere. In love with the one always forbidden to them, with the one they can care for only in secret, in whispers. He cannot tell her what he would tell another; that he loves her, that they'll always be together, that she's the only one for him. I've seen it before. Seen the hearts he broke. Well, he can't do that to her, after all. And she can't sneak out at night to meet him, to listen to his pretty lies and hold them close to her naive heart. Not that he'd know he was lying. Romeo always thinks he's in love, after all. He always believes that this time, he's found the one. But they can't be together, and he won't hurt her when, as soon as the next comes along, he forgets the name Colette and how it once made him sigh. Because of their families - because of Devon, especially, they can't.  
  
But love will find a way. It always does. They'll find a way.  
  
I'm an idiot. I should have realized. I should have kept him away from that party, not dragged him into it.  
  
I saw them talking from across the room, and that's when I realized . . . Auugh! How stupid can one person get?  
  
When his eyes filled with that glow, that adoring light they get sometimes . . . my hands clenched up into fists, and the marks my fingernails made are still there, red and angry. Almost broke the skin. Jealousy all the worse because I know I could have stopped it. It occurs to me that one day, envy of those girls --those pretty, innocent, girls whose hearts will get broken-- will turn my eyes from their cynical jade to a blazing, pained shade of emerald.  
  
My mind is so strange, even I don't understand it some days.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~  
  
Romeo is wondering if he can even go on. If he can make himself leave. 'Colette,' say the trees. 'Colette,' whisper the stars. 'Colette' is what he hears whenever a dog howls, when the other hounds of the city cry out in response. His soul rests not within him, but with that girl . . . that angel named Colette.  
  
He has come to the garden wall where Mercutio stood, those hours ago. For a moment, he merely stares at the bricks, as if the answer to his troubles will somehow emerge from them, some sort of fey light to guide him to a solution. Then, almost without thought, he begins to climb. The rough stone hurts his hands, but he doesn't mind. His body's complaints are dull in comparison to the strangled cries from his heart. Voices are approaching, and, wary, Romeo hauls himself over the top of the wall, vaulting down to the ground on the other side. He lands on his hands and knees, and utters a muffled curse.  
  
"Romeo!" Ben cups a hand to the side of his mouth, "Romeo, where the hell are you?" He is exhausted, and frustrated, and he wants to go home. "C'mon already!" Dark, curling hair flops over in his face for the thousandth time that night, and he ignores it. Where is his cousin?  
  
"He went home," Mercutio tells him wearily. He knows exactly where Romeo is, of course. But what is the point of worrying Ben? "He's in his bed, asleep. Like we should be. School tomorrow, remember?"  
  
"He didn't go home," Ben replies. "He climbed over the wall, I'll bet. Call for him!"  
  
"Fine," replies Mercutio. "I'll call for him. I'll call . . ." He closes his eyes, knowing what will inevitably pass through his lips. Taunting words. Hurtful, angry, jealous words. Words to make Romeo angry with him. But anger is better than death, isn't it? And maybe this time, Romeo will come. He raises his voice. Calls. Conjures.  
  
"'Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:  
  
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied; Cry but 'Ay me!' pronounce but 'love' and 'dove.' Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, one nick-name for her purblind son and heir, young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim when King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!'"  
  
Silence stretches on, and Mercutio shoots Ben a long-suffering look.  
  
"'He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not. The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.'" A moment's pause, mouth pressed thin with thought. "'I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes! By her high forehead and her scarlet lip . . .'"  
  
He pauses once more, and then a caustic, embittered smile flashes in his eyes. "'By her fine foot, straight leg and quivering thigh . . . And the demesnes that there adjacent lie! And in thy likeness thou appear to us!'"  
  
"Mer," Ben hisses. "I didn't mean to . . . look, you'll just piss him off like this. Stop!"  
  
"Why? What's to be angry over? I haven't insulted her, his love," he snaps. "I'm calling for him. Just like you said."  
  
Ben shakes his head. "Whatever. Look, he's probably in the trees or something. He's sulking, in the dark, alone. 'Blind is his love and best befits the dark.'"  
  
"'If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, and wish his mistress were that kind of fruit as maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.'" Mercutio yawns, glancing about one last time. "Romeo! We're going home. Home, got it? I'm not fucking sleeping out here!" When no response is made, he turns to Ben with a shrug. "See? Not here. Now let's go."  
  
"Yeah . . . stupid to look for someone who doesn't want to be found, anyway."  
  
As the two head off, Romeo leans back against the bricks. "Idiot. He wouldn't laugh, if he understood love. Cynical sonofa- "  
  
Suddenly, a light catches his eye. There is movement, behind the gauzy white curtains of a nearby latticed door. "Huh?"  
  
A slender form is outlined in the pale moonlight. "Colette!"  
  
'But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?  
  
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun'. . . . Juliet?  
  
Romeo blinks as the lines slide their way into his brain and near to his mouth. "I have been spending way too much time around Mercutio," he tells himself, and stifles the flow of poetry that threatens to inundate from his lips. He stares, transfixed, up at the soft glow that illuminates the little balcony, at the beautiful creature standing there.  
  
The girl leans forward to rest her elbow upon the railing, propping her heart-shaped face up with one hand. A gentle sigh drifts from her as she gazes out into the night. "Romeo . . ."  
  
He freezes, wide-eyed. Did she see?  
  
"Romeo, why . . . why did you have to be Romeo? It's Romeo who is hated by my cousin, and Romeo whom he has spoiled minds against . . ." Eyes fluttering shut, dark lashes hiding away the ashen colour. "Oh, if you were anyone else . . . Romeo, I'd be yours."  
  
"Would you?" He speaks before his better sense can halt him- Steps forward, from the shadow, into the moonlight and into her view.  
  
Colette screams. An ivory hand flies to her lips, and she staggers back in fright.  
  
He flinches, startled heart leaping, and does his best to quiet her. "Colette! Hush . . . it's all right, it's all right!" Romeo draws a deep breath to calm himself, and continues. "If you love me . . . Colette, I don't have to be Romeo."  
  
She shows no signs of having heard, pulling the white dressing gown closer about herself to better hide her slight form. "Who are you?" she demands. "What are you doing hiding in the dark- listening to me?"  
  
"I can't say," Romeo replies. "My name is hateful to you, and so it is to my self."  
  
A soft gasp of realization. "Oh!" Colette knows the voice. "Romeo . . . you're Romeo Fiore." 'Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?'  
  
"Not if you don't want me to be." 'Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.'  
  
"'How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.'"  
  
"'With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt. Therefore, thy kinsmen are no let to me!'"  
  
So love is proclaimed, through flourishes of the tongue, through bravado and youth's silliness.  
  
Mercutio is halfway home when, even in his frustrations, worry pauses him. "Oh, God, Rome." He curses suddenly. "Why the hell do you always do this? Why do you have to fall for kids like her? And why do I always have to fix things for you?" He turns back toward the Capulet house. Stops again. "Screw it," he says. Bites down on his lower lip, toys with one of the little silver hoops through his ear.  
  
"I am really starting to hate you," he says at last, "but you're not getting yourself killed. Not again."  
  
Author's note: To those few that have been following the fic, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long for this chapter. I also regret that it's rather short, and not of the best quality- though I'm happy to say, Ben seems to have developed a personality. I've been rehearsing and performing intensively for a production of Grease. Yes, Grease. I'm a theater addict, no making fun is allowed. I've also been abandoned by my muses (who may or may not be merely the first signs of schizophrenia :P) Now that the show is over and I have time to think about things other than remembering the exact combinations of nonsense syllables to "We Go Together," updates should be more frequent. Thank you for your patience (and your readership!), and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.  
  
~Jiasa 


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